


Apotheosis

by DabMyWetties



Category: Pentatonix, Superfruit
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood, Gen, Horror, M/M, Other, Telepathy, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 16:58:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15586509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DabMyWetties/pseuds/DabMyWetties
Summary: Scott had hoped no one would have to die tonight but things don’t always go to plan.





	Apotheosis

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for the whole story - blood, death, violence, blood, language, and did I mention blood?

“God, I’m bored.”

Scott makes a face and looks around. Bored? How can he be bored? This is his party, and like every gathering he organizes it’s lively and sumptuous and undeniably beautiful.

“Shut up,” Mitch says. “The party is fine. It’s just full of the same people talking about the same banal quasi-problems as every Elysium we’ve hosted for the last century. I always hope for something new and I’m always bitterly disappointed.”

Oh, of course. Silly him. “Can you at least pretend like you can’t hear what I’m thinking?” he asks Mitch. “I mean, just give me the illusion of privacy sometimes? And be careful what you wish for. The rumors out of Anarch territory don’t sound boring.”

Mitch waves a hand dismissively. “Rumors. If I clung to every rumor I’ve heard I’d go insane.” He pauses, then shoots a hard look at Scott. “Shut _up_ . It is _not_ too late. I’m not insane; I’m an artist.”

Scott doesn’t even try to shield his thoughts because it’s pointless. “ _You can be both...daddy.”_

He sinks further into the luxurious club chair he’s seated in, throwing one leg over its leather-bound arm. The half-dirisive, half-amused snort from Mitch in response to his mental nickname is barely audible over the buzz of seventy or so other vampires milling about.

Boring. Yeah, right. There’s nothing boring about Mitch’s parties. In fact, they tend to draw undead from Domains far and wide. Tonight is no exception; from his vantage point he’s already identified a contingent from Seattle and visitors from at least six other cities. Everyone’s dressed appropriately, too, which is a relief. No one wants to see a repeat of April’s formal Elysium when that group from Chicago somehow felt that “black tie” meant ripped jeans and a blood doll on a leash. There’s no more scathing a takedown than a Mitch Grassi fashion-related takedown. A whole lot of status and influence was lost that night and Scott figures they won’t be seeing anyone from Chicago for a long time.  

As such, even though the top hat he’s wearing for tonight’s Victorian Underground theme is utterly uncomfortable and prone to slipping off his head, Scott will continue wearing it. Besides, they look damn good all matchy-matchy like this.

“Where’s your ghoul-boy?” Scott asks. He’d scanned the crowd several times over to make sure things were running as they should, and since they are it seems like a good time for some gossip.

Mitch waves his hand again. “Off playing kine with the bloodbags. A birthday party, I think?” He shakes his head. “Something pointless, at least. Where are yours? I have no idea how you keep up with two.”

“Youthful energy, old man,” Scott replies with a smile. “They’re on a business trip working on my Portland project.”

The mock-offense on Mitch’s face is pretty funny and almost convincing. “I’d kill you if I could,” Mitch fires back. “Old man? Fuck off!”

A cold stare from Mitch sends a neonate who’d been hesitantly approaching them scurrying away.

“Any plans to Embrace ghoul-boy?” Scott can’t quite hide the undercurrent of jealousy in his voice. “You seem to like this one.”

“And you’re jealous,” Mitch points out. “Nothing on the horizon. Childer are a pain in the fucking ass to deal with. I still haven’t quite recovered from you, whelp, and it’s been almost two hundred years.”

Fair point. He _was_ a pain in the ass back then. “Sorry, _daddy_.”

“Filthy boy. Speaking of, what about you? Don’t you want someone - or some- _ones_ \- to call you daddy?”

Fortunately they’re interrupted before Scott has to come up with an answer to that. Few dare approach Mitch without invite, especially when he’s with Scott, but exceptions are made.

“Smile!” Matt exclaims with a wide grin, holding up a bizarre contraption that may have once been a camera but is now something a bit more. They don’t smile, of course, but they dutifully gaze into the lens as he clicks the machine’s button a few times.

As the Domain’s self-proclaimed documentarian, Matt spends most of his time at Elysia methodically photographing and cataloging each attendee. He’d done something to that camera rig so that it actually photographs vampires properly and his obsession has come in handy on more than a few occasions. Mitch makes sitting for Matt-ographs a requirement for attendance. Some dislike it but almost no one has refused, and when they do it’s generally a clear sign that they have something to hide.

Thing is, you can’t hide anything from Mitch. He knows, and if he doesn’t, he’ll find out.

“So,” Mitch drawls after Matt darts away into the crowd. “Your ghoul-boys. Plans?”

Scott manages a very natural-sounding sigh. “They may call me daddy but no plans to turn ‘em yet. I have enough on my plate as it is.” He’s probably the only being on the planet able to pick up the hint of possessiveness in Mitch’s question. He doesn’t mention it because he knows, and he knows Mitch knows he knows, so there’s no need to bring it up.

Some time passes and they sit in silence, slouched languidly in their chairs, occasionally sharing snarky remarks telepathically. The strategic placement allows them both a clear view of the gathering as well as a nearly stage-like atmosphere that practically forces every Kindred in the room to notice them.

Mitch doesn’t just host Elysia; he _presides_. Scott is only too happy to join him in that.

Just as a dance performance is about to start at the front of the grand ballroom, Scott _feels_ Mitch go on the defensive. His body responds automatically, blood rushing to muscles and senses heightening.

“Seneschal,” Mitch hisses softly, and even with the split-second precognition that something is wrong, it’s jarring to hear his title rather than his name. Scott’s already on his feet, scanning the crowd.

_“Where?”_ On the surface nothing seems amiss, but then he can _see_ who Mitch is looking at. Scott blinks and his eyes shift focus and….

Shit.

What takes Scott - and most Kindred - conscious effort to achieve on one creature Mitch can do easily on a crowd. No one else appears to have spotted the problem yet. There, across the ballroom, one of the Lunatic neonates ( _“Ozymandias,”_ Mitch whispers in his mind, along with a rundown of his strengths and weaknesses) is swaying and grinning, blood still fresh around his mouth and staining the front of his shirt. That in itself isn’t particularly unusual. The issue becomes clear when one examines Ozymandias’ aura. It’s swarming with undulating black streaks snaking through a backdrop of muted, blotchy pastels.

Soul-eater. An abomination.

Scott had hoped no one would have to die tonight but things don’t always go to plan.

“Summon the Prince,” he mutters to Mitch. It takes less than a human heartbeat to draw up his power to command and even less for Mitch to follow his direction. The guests become aware of the shift in atmosphere; there’s a staticky tension that’s almost palpable in the air as the Elders of the city begin to converge from two directions at once. Whether from respect or abject terror, paths clear through the crowd until three Kindred face one gibbering, bloody lunatic.

“Ozymandias,” Scott barks. “Come.”

The neonate doesn’t respond. By all rights he should have no option to disobey, not with the combined force of both Scott and Mitch’s presence, yet he does disobey. His eyes are unfocused and he seems largely unaware of his surroundings. Scott has a passing thought that the whelp may have lost his senses as well as his mind, but it’s not a thought to dwell on when more pressing matters are at hand. The Domain has no Scourge present this evening so it falls on him to contain and remove the abomination via force if necessary. Scott exchanges a look with the Prince, who nods.

He doesn’t technically need permission to take down a Kindred for questioning, but it is generally considered good form to check with his boss if possible. This is Prince Kirstin’s Domain, after all.

“Come or you will be taken, and it won’t be pleasant” Kirstin intones.

It takes a moment for Scott to mentally finalize his plan with Mitch silently filling in some blanks. The young vampire still does not follow the command; instead he begins to gibber more, his mouth stretching wide in a grimacing rictus and blood continuing to drip down his chin.

Alright then, guess we’ll do this the hard way. Scott reaches behind his back, under the tail of his formal jacket, and unsheathes the wooden stake concealed there.

One more Kindred approaches in response to Mitch’s summons, no longer smiling, and Scott takes that as his cue. “Ozymandias, Childe of Sethos, you are accused of the murder and soul-consumption of an unknown Kindred.”

Those gathered around who hadn’t already grokked to that fact gasp in horror.

Scott continues. “As your Sire is not here to speak for you, your Clan Elder, Matthew, will stand in his place.” He has to raise his voice to be heard over the increasingly loud nonsense spewing from the lunatic’s mouth, and he really would just rather torpor this fucker to shut him up and get this over with but protocols are protocols. His hand tightens on his stake. “What say you?”

And obviously Ozymandias doesn’t have much to say that’s intelligible. Seriously, he’s going to get blood all over this nice jacket thanks to some meaningless whelp who hasn’t even been dead a decade, and….

Mitch’s warning comes through loud and clear. No words are spoken nor telepath’ed but the screaming klaxon of **DANGER** washes through his being and he responds without thought.

Protect Mitch. Protect the Prince.  

_Run_.

Scott’s ability to protect either is limited by the fact that Mitch is faster and Kirstin stronger than him, but still. He can make sure they’re getting away. At five steps back Scott _feels_ the summons Mitch sends to Matt who, unlike his clanmate, is not capable of ignoring it. Their documentarian won’t quite catch up but hopefully he’ll be out of reach of whatever bad juju is about to go down.

At ten steps Ozymandias’ gibbering coalesces into a crescendo of words.

Well, one word.

“Despair!” the neonate shrieks. “Despair!”

At twelve steps blood geysers from Ozymandias’ mouth.

Then his eyes.

Thick and foul, it sprays like a gelatinous projectile across those Kindred standing too near. Normally that sort of thing is a party but the unorthodox way the blood left the body it once inhabited seems to keep everyone’s spirits down.

At thirteen steps the Domain’s Elders stare in mute horror at the scene before them. The withered husk of what used to be Ozymandias falls to the floor with less of a thump and more of a rattle. Over a dozen guests are visibly spattered with the stinking blood that had effectively exploded from the fallen vampire; many more are sure to have been caught up to a lesser degree. Kindred are beginning to shriek, some in horror and some, further back, in frenzy over the scent of blood.

_“And you were bored. Told you to be careful what you wish for,”_ Scott directs his thoughts to Mitch who, for once, doesn’t have a snarky response - verbal or otherwise.

This is not good.

Habit takes over before anything else and within a few human heartbeats the Elders seize control of the situation. Ghouls are dispatched to clean up the blood. Prince Kirstin directs one of her Childer - an intimidating fellow who more resembles a werewolf than a vampire - to secure and guard the body of Ozymandias. Scott delegates some of the more powerful Kindred to corral anyone in or near frenzy while Mitch, ever the gracious host, sends for some food for any hungry guests.

On the surface this is not their first, or anywhere near their worst, rodeo. Everyone knows what to do, and maintaining a calm presence - along with some calming energy provided by Mitch - is key to maintaining a calm populace.

With any luck the rumors out of Anarch Territory haven’t reached the rank and file here yet and no one yet knows what’s likely coming.  

It isn’t until later, much later, as dawn approaches, that Scott can finally give voice to his thoughts. Once the guests have all left the three Elders sit in a private room to discuss.

Mitch already knows, of course. He knows everything Scott thinks.

“The Sickness is here. The rumors we’ve been hearing? The bleeding, the dying? It’s here.”  

  



End file.
